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THE 
WIDOWED EARTH 

A Dramatic Poem 

BY 

HARRY ALONZO BRANDT 




^T ^ARTI et VeRITATp fi 



BOSTON 

THE GORHAM PRESS 
19 I 6 



Copyright, 1916, by Harry A. Brandt 



All Rights Reserved 



The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A. 



\ 



DEC II 1916 

g)Cl.D 45H18 



CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

Prologue: New Wine 9 

I. The Pagan ii 

II. The Upas Tree 19 

III. The House of Blood 27 

IV. The Widowed Earth 37 



THE WIDOWED EARTH 



DRAMATIS PERSONi^ 

Pagan — A sea-captain. 

Youth — An ardent youth. 

Junius or Job — A poet. 

First Friend, Second Friend, etc. 

Scene — A modern seaport. 

Time — Now. 



THE WIDOWED EARTH 

PROLOGUE. NEW WINE 

You pipe of golden years, 
And dream that Pan appears 
Beneath the tangled trees, 
Or by the shady pine, 
With Bacchic hosts that dine 
And dance with naiades. 

You blow the mellow praise 
Of dead, romantic days. 
Till knights begin to gleam 
And flash before your eyes, 
And charge the kings that rise 
By castled hill and stream. 

What if you pipe and sing? 
Not all your reeds can bring 
To life your mythic year! 
For earth is old and wise, 
And all her mountains rise 
Through forests gray and sear. 

9 



THE WIDOWED EARTH 

Then gone, forever gone, 
Is earth's Arcadian lawn; 
And so, let pagans weep 
For nymphs in leafy glade. 
For all the feasts they made, 
For gods and men who sleep. 

But shall I quake and dread 
Because the past is dead? 
Nay, fool! This is the time 
To change my coat and fare. 
To crop my tangled hair. 
And build the living rhyme. 

Wherefore, a curse on Pan! 
For I shall sing of man! 
Of man, I smite and go 
Through all the ranging keys 
Of human melodies 
That spring from present woe! 



10 



I. THE PAGAN 

It is night. Pagan strolls along the streets of 
a great city reveling in the sights that are new as 
IV ell as old. 

Pagan 

Right glad I am at last, 
To leave the swaying mast 
Behind; to seek again 
The pleasant ways of men, 
Exploring every street 
Where friendly pagans meet. 
Aha, see here displayed 
Whatever man has made 
Of gold! Old pirate would 
Make booty of this store 
Of stones and costly ore, 
These rings and tropic wood! 
If I were not content. 
And now on pleasure bent. 
It would be kingly sport 
To rob this wealthy port! 

Enter Youth and Junius. The last is some paces 
behind and continues to stand at a distance. 



II 



THE WIDOWED EARTH 

Pagan 

What luck ! Here comes a strong 
And thoughtful youth. A man 
Whose face is lean and long 
Will surely fit my plan. 
Sir Youth, yon moody man 
In rags, tell me, how can 
He look so cynical 
About the carnival? 

Youth 

The man in rags? Aye so. 
Yon Junius, Sir, you know, 
Has neither house nor purse; 
Therefore, whereof to curse! 

Pagan 

Indeed, a sounding name, 
A very sounding name 



Youth 

But hard unfeeling minds, 
Or hearts where pity finds 
12 



THE PAGAN 

No place, would care to run 

His name into a pun. 

My Sir, it would appall 

If you could know him all 

And all, could stand with him 

Upon the very rim 

Of immortality, 

And then, yes, then, should see 

Great hopes and splendid power 

Receding hour by hour! 

Pagan 

What tale of woe is this? 
On me such ravings miss 
Their mark. Behold me now! 
No foolish thoughts endow 
My heart with weak pity. 
But look, and truly see 
I am a man at home 
Wherever sailors roam. 
Can I be weak or sick 
When pleasures lie so thick? 
Aha, see here displayed 
All fruits of skill and trade; 
Yes, every sensuous thing 
The art of man can bring! 

13 



THE WIDOWED EARTH 

Behold these lofty piles, 
Whose goodly courts and aisles 
Are paved with wood and stone 
That kings would fight to own. 
And here, upon this wall, 
Great silken curtains fall. 
Of webbed lace as white 
As foam-draped Aphrodite. 
And there, is savory meat, 
With wines both sharp and sweet, 
Perfumes, and fruit, and spice. 
Yes, all that can entice 
The pagan heart! Here too, 
The while my wonder grew, 
I heard the rhythmic beat 
Of many choral feet. 
Of voices wrought in song 
With laughter echoed long. 
Shall happy men repent? 
Not I ! This world was meant 
To be the variant toy 
That brings us health and joy! 

Youth 

And hence, no sorrows roll 
Across your hardened soul! 

14 



THE PAGAN 

Pagan 

Well, no, for when at last 
The watch upon the mast 
Spies out the home city 
Across the shining sea, 
Then the heart is glad! 
For all the crew is mad 
With joy to see the land 
Whereon the cities stand. 
'Twas so last night. There lay 
The towns across the bay, 
Gray white along the west 
As Phoebus came to rest 
Behind such clouds as lie 
Along a sunset sky! 
We watched until the day 
Was gone. The mansions lay 
In shadows as the gown 
Of ebon night sank down 
Upon the painted town. 
And then a timid light 
Defied engulfing night; 
It was a kindling spark 
That smote the gloom and dark 
Until the wide city 
Became one galaxy 
Of starry pageantry! 

15 



THE WIDOWED EARTH 
Youth 

I, too, have looked amazed 

Upon great towns emblazed, 

Until there came a note 

Across the ocean moat, 

A boding voice, that moaned 

And died, and growing droned 

Like distant tides at sea 

That come eventually 

To seize with crushing grip 

Upon the aspen ship! 

This boding minstrelsy 

Of runic murmurs swelled 

In chords that laughed and 

knelled 
Until their shriek and cry 
Moaned of the souls that die ! 



Pagan 

Ha, ha! The changeful tune 
Is not a mystic rune! 
It is the cry of steel 
And trenchant grinding wheel; 
i6 



THE PAGAN 

Or seething melting pot 
Of metals whitcd hot, 
With echoes of the street 
Where Cork and Aden meet! 



Youth 

Perhaps, but I can see 
Its boding mystery. 

Pagan 

Ha, ha! I weep to see 
Such gloomy fantasy! 

{Junius steps nearer) 
Well, now, my moody knight, 
That scornest all delight, 
Tell me, at carnival 
Are not we friends to all ? 
Therefore, tell us your name. 
Your part and jest. 

Junius 

My name? My Sir, a name 
Is not a name, except 

17 



THE WIDOWED EARTH 

The wit of some adept 
Link it with jest or shame. 
Wherefore, my brazen man, 
But only waiting can, 
With truth, disclose to thee 
My soul in misery. 

Pagan 

Well, now, in every speech 
My friends begin to preach ! 
Alack, the fates will send 
Me to a tragic end! 
Indeed, what shall I seek? 
For when I dare to speak 
The brooding landsman grows 
Vehement or morose. 
The fates will make of me 
The sport of sympathy. 
But fie! I know a cup 
That lifts the spirits up ! 



i8 



II. THE UPAS TREE 

// is morning, and Pagan is early upon the 
streets. The crowds are just beginning to hurry by. 

Pagan 

The day begins, but gray 

And sombre vapors lay 

Far-streaked and mingled by 

The towers that reach the sky. 

The narrow sinuous street 

Cuts by the granite feet 

Of giant piles, whose cold 

Hard walls, steel-ribbed and old, 

Look insurmountable. 

The gorge between is dense 

With men, impassable. 

Except to many tense 

And haggard men, weak spawn 

Who drift and eddy on 

I know not where. Forlorn 

Is day a very morn! 

For in this dismal place 

I see no choral face. 

Or sign of carnival 

From night's gay capital. 



19 



THE WIDOWED EARTH 

(Enter Junius) 

What now? The moody leer 
Of yonder cavalier 
Recalls a starry light 
I saw on yester night. 
Here, then, I have a guide, 
And earth is not so wide, 
But that through him I may 
Begin to clear away 
This rune of night and day. 
The jest, my man, the jest! 

Junius 

My weary soul be blest! 
But why tell you the jest? 
Indeed, my name might be, 
Junius, in raillery; 
Again, some call me Job, 
Since I must wear his robe. 
But now, that you are mine, 
I give you tears for wine. 
I say the past is dead, 
For hills where shepherds fed 
Their flocks and piped a tune 
From dawn till drowsy noon 
20 



THE UPAS TREE 

Are now a heap of slag! 
See where the toilers drag 
The disembowelled hills 
Up to the maws of mills; 
And where by giant wheel, 
By cold resistless steel, 
By measured steady shock, 
They grind the living rock! 
At last earth's treasure-hold 
Must give its utmost gold. 
Therefore new temples stand 
Upon the cratered land, 
Wherein are heard the hoarse 
And clanging songs of force; 
While nauseous vapors lie 
Across the blackened sky. 
Then gone, forever gone, 
Is that Arcadian lawn! 
Its flocks and choral men, 
Its nymphs and leafy glen, 
Are gone! And pagans weep 
For gods and men who sleep. 
But shall I wail my fate 
That I am come so late? 
That I am set when old 
Conceptions cannot hold? 
When ancient flasks of wine 
21 



THE WIDOWED EARTH 

Would drug your hopes and mine? 
Nay, fool, I do not seek 
Arcadia or the Greek! 
What? To lie and pipe 
When all the world is ripe 
For men who see and sing 
Of all new facts may bring? 
The world w^U welter till 
Its bards have drunk their fill 
Of earth's new wine of woe; 
And, therefore, shall I go, 
And, therefore, shall I drink 
To drowse, to brood, to think, 
For thus I know I can 
Sing true of troubled man. 
Thus may I smite and go 
Through joy and human woe. 
See yonder doors of brass 
And steel, where toilers pass: 
The beardless youth, women. 
Children, and broken men, 
A horde of young and old 
To cut, to sew, to fold 
From dawn till late. Yes, long 
Into the night the song 
Of wheels and shuttles bright 
In mad and burning flight 
22 



THE UPAS TREE 

Will hum and drone, until 

An agonizing train 

Of endless murmurs fill 

The stunned and stifled brain! 

Here is a little thing 

The toilers come to sing: 

Work, work, work, 
With never an hour to pause or wait. 
But only a ceaseless strain 

From dawn till late. 

Work, work, work. 
With never a thought, but just to strive 
To worship the senseless wheels 

That ever drive. 

Work, work, work. 
Filling up my cup with hate and gall, 
And letting the long days weave 

The worker's thrall. 

Work, work, work, 
So binding my life in part and whole; 
The pall of an endless task 

Has slain my soul! 

Work, w^ork, work. 
Yes, work for the gods and men who slay ! 

23 



THE WIDOWED EARTH 

The end is a house of blood, 
Is dust and clay! 



Pagan 

Alas, complaining Job, 

Your speech becomes your robe! 



Junius 

Aha! Then hear again. 
For I will speak for men: 

I saw a goodly princess stand 
Within the crowded market place; 
The people praised her matchless form 
And Roman face. 

For in her hand a balance swung; 
She was the law for small and great. 
Then at her feet a man was flung, 
The people wait — 

The people wait and mutter while 
The man is slashed through flesh and bone; 
They turn their faces from the sight, 
But hear his moan. 

24 



THE UPAS TREE 

Their king was of red Herod's type; 
And though his hands were dripping blood, 
The mighty smiled and bade him join 
Their brotherhood. 

Does not the princess judge her race? 
Or will she leave the small to fate 
That crime and greed may twine to serve 
The cruel great? 

But then I saw her seemly form 
Was ribbed with age and lichen grown! 
Oh, God! La Belle Dame sans Merci 
Was rotten stone! 



Pagan 

My Job, at last I see 
A poison grief in thee! 



Junius 

Is aught I say the fruit 
Of fool or drunken brute? 
And if my song is sad, 
No need to call me mad ! 
For if I sing of man 
25 



THE WIDOWED EARTH 

I am no Caliban. 

Hear once again my speech, 

For this is what I teach: 

The city is the spot 

Where nations start to rot, 

For here the nations mate. 

Here breed, here congregate, 

Until the fight to live 

Consumes what love should give. 

And here ambitions lead 

To hate, insatiate greed; 

And these pollute and breed 

In every heart. Indeed, 

Cities destroy us, for 

They nurse the seeds of war! 

Therefore, this capital 

That seems at carnival 

Is full of poison breath. 

Of hidden bones and death; 

Is but a upas tree 

That spreadeth misery! 

Pagan 

Alas for grief! for when 
The speech of living men 
Is on the vital air 
You brood in blind despair! 

26 



III. THE HOUSE OF BLOOD 

Evening has come, and Pagan is upon the street. 
He is seeking for any diversion that may help him 
to forget the gloomy experience of the morning. 



Pagan 

Now comes the close of day, 
And now shall night allay 
All grief, for they who weep 
Forget their tears in sleep. 

{Enter Youth) 



Youth 

Oh, Sir, kind Sir, and can 
You help a wounded man? 



Pagan 

What now? I am no priest! 
27 



THE WIDOWED EARTH 

Youth 

But, Sir, he has not ceased 
To call for you ; 'tis late 
And other friends await 



Pagan 

But if I do not know 
The man 

Youth 
Then will you go? 

Pagan 
Alas, for whom or where? 

Youth 

With me; I'll guide you there. 

{Exit) 

In a small and dimly lighted room two men 
stand conversing near the door. A third person is 
stretched out upon a low bed in the corner of the 
28 



THE HOUSE OF BLOOD 

room. This last is Junius, or Job, and the other 
two men are his friends. 

(Enter Youth with Pagan) 

Youth 

Here, friends, a friend! Give room! 
See there, in gathering gloom 
And bitter misery, 
Is he who begged for thee! 

Pagan 

What? And this is Job, 
In blood and tattered robe? 

Youth 

It is, for this is he 

Who cursed the wide city; 

But now as one who feels 

The crunching of the wheels 

That grind, he speaks — that grind 

Both flesh and eager mind. 

He has a fearful wound, 

And often has he swooned, 

29 



THE WIDOWED EARTH ; 

But still, in spite of pain, j 

The man sometimes can gain I 

His voice — until the blood : 

Bursts in a gurgling flood i 

Upon his lips i 

i 

Junius ! 

Oh! Oh! j 

If death must take my soul i 

The grave v^ill be my goal! j 

Oh— ; 
As one who fed the steel 

Beneath the shaping wheel, \ 

I learned to race the great ' 

Machine at daring rate, ) 

And laughed when I would choke ; 

With heat or burning smoke, \ 
Until — my flesh was caught 
And torn, yes, crushed and wrought 

Into a foolish pack i 

Of blood and rags! Alack! j 

Alack, that life should stop j 

In some great sooty shop! I 

For now no deed shall sound j 

My little name around j 
The world, but I shall rot 

30 i 



THE HOUSE OF BLOOD 

In some unhallowed spot! 

Oh— 

What? To fear and quake? 

To pant? To curse? To shake? 

Aha! Old Death may take 

What crumbs of life remain, 

For since my hopes are slain, 

In sacrificial cup 

My life is lifted up ! 

First Friend 

I will not waste my breath 
Upon a toast to Death, 
For since the grave is near 
A friend should speak sincere. 
I will not mollify. 
Or try to mystify. 
My words are sharp and plain, 
But they are golden grain. 
Then hear, my fainting Job: 
I know your faded robe 
Does ill become the part 
Of your ambitious heart; 
Yet, pride is not condemned 
If love of power is stemmed, 
Controlled, and made to serve 

31 



THE WIDOWED EARTH 

Sane thought and steady nerve. 
I know you hoped to toy 
With high ambitious lays 
Like one who sang of Troy 
And Greece in ancient days. 
We know his robe and fare 
Were vile, but did he swear 
As you? The poet's mind 
Is keen, eager, refined. 
Why then should deepest wrong 
Embitter all your song? 
The great do master woe, 
In truth, refine it so 
The very utmost pain 
Distils the grand refrain. 

Junius 

So immortality 

Is born of misery? 

My God ! when will you din 

Of sweeter doctrine? 

And now my day grows late. 

For Time will never wait. 

And I must pass, I fear, 

Before my high career. 

Why mock at pain and death? 

3^ 



THE HOUSE OF BLOOD 

I have no health or breath. 
Tell me, what goodly thing 
Did dead men ever bring? 
Alas, I pass, I fear. 
Before my golden year — 
I faint, I cease to speak 
Before I reach my peak! 

Second Friend 

My words shall not be bent 
Or barbed with argument. 
So let this tale of mine 
Distil as oil and wine 
Upon an ancient sore. 
I mollify my speech, 
And if I seem to teach, 
Then I shall speak no more. 
There was an eager youth 
Who lived in times, forsooth, 
When in the tuneful air. 
The earth, and everywhere. 
Each cloud, or stone, or clod. 
Embraced some petty god. 
"A god?" the youth would ask, 
"A god in such a mask?" 
Then to his priests he said: 

33 



THE WIDOWED EARTH 

"Are gods alive or dead? 
Are gods so vilely grown 
They live in shapeless stone? 
Howr beautiful is all 
The living w^orld! I call 
Upon the gods that live! 
And to their souls I give 
The fairest lineament 
In earth or firmament!" 
But w^hen the priests had heard, 
Their utmost wrath was stirred. 
"Away with him! In truth, 
We ought to stone this youth!" 
But with this sentence said, 
The youth escaped; he fled 
Unto the hills, and there 
Alone, with love and care, 
He carved him gods again, 
But fair and formed as men. 
In later times a race 
Of wiser men were bred, 
And when they found the place 
To which the youth had fled. 
They put his scattered bones 
Beneath his gods, and raised 
A house of burnished stones 
Wherein his name is praised. 



THE HOUSE OF BLOOD 

Junius 

I know that men should wait, 

In patience contemplate 

The crown of olive leaves. 

Perhaps some distant day 

Unnumbered satellites, 

Some cults, some parasites 

Of fame will come to prey 

Upon my name, and I 

Shall live because I die! 

But, friends, you know this leaves 

My present needs and grief 

Untouched. Why not relief 

From pain that far outweighs 

Some dole of future praise? 

What man but longs to live 

For what this earth can give? 

I give my scanty dole 

Of crowns, yes, friends, the whole 

Of all the ages give 

That here and now may live! 

Oh, empty, empty vaunt. 

How many men are gaunt 

With starving all their days 

Upon the wine of praise! 

So take my crowns and gold, 

35 



THE WIDOWED EARTH 

All tears and garments old, 
All shame and sacred vow, 
But give me here and now, 
With life, and every mirth, 
The very fat of earth! 

Pagan 

Alas, I find the key 

Of all your misery 

Too late! A pagan friend 

You are, and this will rend 

My heart! Had I but lent 

My gold we should have spent 

This night at bacchanals. 

At happy carnivals — 

But now, when we should dine, 

Thou givest tears for wine! 



36 



IV. THE WIDOWED EARTH 

The place and the persons are the same as for 
III. But a few minutes of time have elapsed. 

Youth 

Now see the Pagan weep, 
But not from Bacchic sleep ! 
Now are the aged still! 
But why? Does wisdom fill 
The heart of burning youth? 
Is he the ward of truth? 
Aha, in teeming years. 
White hair, and many tears, 
You say is wisdom found ! 
Why then does Job confound 
The wise and solemn seer? 
Are you too old to hear 
Him hurling bitter words 
Like flocks of tropic birds? 
My soul is past restraint 
At hearing Job's complaint. 
Have I not heard him speak 
Defenses for the weak? 
Have I not seen him give 
His crust that men might live? 
But now the subtle seed 
Of selfishness and greed, 

37 



THE WIDOWED EARTH 

With all he sought to slay, 
Comes at the last to lay 
Its stamp upon his soul. 
But if his shining goal 
Is lost, I shall not blame. 
Much less in aught defame 
The man, but shame, but woe. 
On all that makes him so! 
And now, look you at Job, 
For I will seek to probe 
His heart. Behold his form. 
Wherein the stress and storm 
Of wide diversity 
Will give no mastery. 
Does not his lofty brow 
Suggest a priestly vow? 
And yet, would cheek of lip 
Let what is sensuous slip? 
I shall not mock the plaint, 
Nor shall I scorn the tear 
Of such as Job, who faint 
And die in full career; 
Yet I will answer him 
Before his eyes are dim. 
Yes, Job, and all, give heed. 
There is in him the seed 
Of death. Did not he say 

38 



THE WIDOWED EARTH 

With scorn, and madly pray : 

"I give my scanty dole 

Of crowns, yes, friends, the whole 

Of what the ages give 

That here and now may live! 

Aye, take my crowns and gold, 

All tears and garments old, 

All shame and sacred vow. 

But give me here and now. 

With life and every mirth, 

The very fat of earth!" 

My Job, indeed one can 

Call this the beast in man! 

If this sums up the whole 

You have no poet's soul. 

My fainting, dying seer, 

At death it does appear 

Your heart is full inclined 

To self. Your eager mind 

Has feared too much the price 

Of holy sacrifice. 

Have you no travail when 

Despair would ruin men? 

Yet once your voice was strong 

Against the rule of wrong. 

Why now, for self and mirth, 

Despise the widowed earth? 

39 



THE WIDOWED EARTH 

But think what savage strife, 
What wars for very life, 
If all the world should be 
In Job's philosophy! 
Behold, my friends, and see 
I speak no mystery. 
For in these savage years 
Our traders laugh at fears, 
Since out of wars and pain 
They cull their bloody gain. 
For these new cannibals 
Grow fat on carnivals 
Of hate ! For blood, rich-red 
And warm from mangled dead, 
Will yield a gold return. 
Because our merchants yearn 
With deep insatiate greed 
For gain, the nations bleed. 
If wealth remains the goal 
Of our fat trader's soul, 
What of the end? The end 
When shrieking nations rend 
And slay? Such homicide 
Will end in very deed 
With nations crucified 
Upon a cross of greed! 
For while the strong contend 

40 



THE WIDOWED EARTH 

Their bitter wars do rend 
The innocent and weak. 
Alas, the earth shall reek 
With flesh, and graves shall lie 
Unnumbered as the sky 
Of countless stars'. What then? 
What then if broken men 
Shall come to loathe the kings 
Whose pride and hatred brings 
Ten nations to the pits 
Where Death with Ares sits? 
And what if seers shall fail, 
And purblind poets wail 
And curse, or fight to hold 
Some pot of bloody gold? 
What, then, if all the world 
Is caught and backward hurled 
Into a sea of slime, 
Of primal ooze and crime. 
Until the awful flood 
Makes earth a house of blood? 

First Friend 

Behold, torrential speech. 
Sir Youth, can never reach 
The ear of Job, nor he 
41 



THE WIDOWED EARTH 

Reply. Let courtesy 
Bestow what love is led 
To lavish on the dead. 

Pagan 

Alas, the man is dead! 
Is dead upon a bed 
Of clotted blood! So lay 
His stiffened corpse away; 
But soft and gently, friends, 
For love with kindness lends 
Our final gift. Is dead — 
My God, the man is dead! 
But what can now be said 
For widowed earth? Will she 
Sink, too, in misery? 

Youth 

Alas, my friends, you see 
How Job's philosophy 
Begets us wars and fears. 
And hurls the nations back 
Upon the weltering track 
A thousand precious years — 
And yet I want to live, 
O God, I want to live! 
42 



THE WIDOWED EARTH 

Perhaps a better earth 

Shall find its holy birth 

In all our loss and woe — 

But I, how can I know? 

And yet I want to live 

To strike with mace and sword, 

With wit and kindling word, 

With might and lyric song 

At hydra-headed wrong! 

I cannot lie and pipe 

When all the world is ripe 

For men who work and sing 

Of what new truth may bring. 

What if the earth be slag 

And graves? The brave shall drag 

Debris aside, forget their hate 

And reconstruct the state. 

For when our wars shall cease, 

And men remember peace, 

I, too, would toil and wait 

With those who rear the state 

Anew; who build again 

The homes of simple men! 



43 



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